There are many perks to having a stepfather as your English teacher. Well, at least former. First of all, you get free tutoring, without having to stay back an hour afterschool for "English Enrichment". And while Paul's in the shower, I can sneakily hack into his computer and take a quick peek on the test we're due to take the next day. Hey, I'm normally not a cheater, but when it comes to school, I'd do anything to pass the class.

Plus, sometimes, I can get extra credit for manually (Mom insists) washing the dishes or taking out the trash.

Lastly, you get a free alarm clock. After approximately $1000 going down the drain (with my unlimited Achilles strength, I tend to break alarm clocks. It usually involves a frustrating fire-engine blaring, my getting annoyed, flexing my arm, glass shattering, Mom yelling, and an "Oops".) we don't buy them anymore. However, since I'm too lazy to take the subway/public transportation, New York City is too cheap to provide yellow school buses for high schoolers, I ask Paul for a favor: give me a lift to school by car. Thus, Paul has to wake me up or else he'll be late for school too. Fortunately, he is a very reliable alarm clock. Besides, if there's one thing you need to know about New York, eschew using public transportation as much as possible. Don't even bother glancing at the bus schedule since no one abides to it. And if your bus comes in 30-minute intervals, well, you're out of luck.

I recall a time waiting for the M11. No, this bus stop didn't even have a nice bench and sunroof-blocker-thingy to rest on. It was just a pole/stick protruding from the ground with a sign on top. I stood there for forty freaking minutes, got so pissed, and decided to walk home. Two minutes after I left the bus stop, next thing you know, three M11s whoosh by, sweeping their dust into my face.

I sent a complaint to the MTA, they're the guys who's in charge of this idiotic public transportation system.

They never replied.

The thing is, you know how when you're awake in bed, but you're not opening your eyes, so technically, you're kinda sleeping, but then again you're not? I believe the correct term is half-awake. Yeah, today's la rentrée (it's French for the first day of school, stupid. No, I did not find that on Google Translate. My friend at the cafe taught me, so don't look at me like that.) and I'm not particularly excited. I'm not like those little kids in those The First Day of Kindergarten books, who I swear are so pumped to get their butts in the Meeting Area (it's a fancy term for rug which I believe these should-be-in-diapers kiddies have peed on) and talk about what they did over vacation.

"Percy," Paul droned. Yup, he's not awake either. Maybe he shouldn't have been up all night engaging in midnight pleasures with my dear mother. Nah, I'm joking. That would be disgusting.

I shot out of bed, threw on a tuxedo, and was out the door. No. My body needs thirty minutes to fully wake up. I was being sarcastic.

I dragged myself out of bed. Hey, thanks Mom, now I don't have to dig in my dresser, placing everything in disorder. You ironed my clothes! Quite unfortunately, it lost the warmth from that evil, burning hot (I speak from experience), metal, clothes-flattening thing, so it was cold -insert sad face-.

I decided to skip brushing my teeth. I was in no mood to stick horse hair, I heard from somewhere that the bristles were made from that, in my mouth just to remove plaque. I have only gotten one cavity over the entire course of my life, thank you very much. Quite contrary to popular belief, dousing my face with water does no assistance in waking the mind.

I treaded to the kitchen and plopped down on the chair, as the bacon, yay, pigs are not related to equestrians, smell emanating from the frying goodness in the pan.

Paul turned around to look at me, Mom's flowered apron tied around his waist. Yes, the Pokemon Paul has many moves, for instance: Teach Aggravating Children, Wake Sleeping Percy, Keep Mom's Bed Warm, and lastly, Cook For Still-Sleeping Percy.

He voiced the question I dreaded to hear. "Did you brush your teeth?"

Like a good child, I headed off to- NO. Like a horrible child, I lied. "Yeah."

He believed me. I have the Stolls to thank. Just in case you wanted to know, they have Lying Lessons every Saturday at 10 PM. Chiron does not approve.

I ate.

I grabbed my classic 'The North Face' backpack.

I got in the car.

Paul drove.

Oh, Paul has a very cool car. It's not like a Lexus or anything; it's a Ford. However, it's a demigodly-modified Ford, thus making it worth more than a Ford. It's like a battle tank since it can kill monsters without me actually having to get out of the car.

Need me to explain? Okie-dokie.

You know those '1', '2', '3', etc. buttons that control the AM and FM radio channels? Since the radio, like cellphones, sends a Hey-your-next-breakfast-is-right-here vibe to pretty much every monster in NYC, it would be completely useless to me, unless I suddenly turned suicidal. I asked Jake Mason for a service, build some weapons into this otherwise rusty piece of garbage. Now '1' ejects, with robot-sensored-controlled aim, a javelin, '2' discharges an arrow, and so on. No, it never runs out of equipment 'cause it's awesome like that. In reality, Sue Ellen owes me.

My dad offered a gold chariot complete with hippocampi as redemption for the other car which got destroyed during the Battle of Manhattan. He's a bit not up-to-date with today's recent inventions. Paul declined. Horse-mermaid-esque things and other I'm-late-for-work drivers will result in even worse traffic.

Now, I shall continue with my extremely-boring narration of how we got to Goode.

Paul arrived at school, parked in the "Staff' Reserved Parking Only" parking lot, and kicked me out. He liked to be punctual, and since teachers had to be at school earlier than students, he was on time, and I was half an hour early.

That's one downside as to having an English teacher as your stepfather.

I was late for homeroom.

Now Goode inhabits a very odd building. The floors are named 'B', '1', '2', '3', '4', '5'. Not very odd is it? Well, actually, the first floor is dubbed the second floor, the first floor is actually the basement, and the other basement aka our earthquake shelter? No, NYC doesn't get earthquakes, that's California, on the other side of the country. It's where all the gym lockers are; it's the basement.

Do you get what I mean? If not, well, that's okay because you probably don't go here. If you do, then that's a whole different story. You're pretty much screwed.

Naturally, I forgot this simple rule, and headed to the wrong floor for my homeroom class, 106. I forgot that your homeroom number actually is not your homeroom classroom number. I went to the basement, got very odd looks from the janitor, realized that I was on the wrong floor, headed up to the fifth floor which was actually the fourth floor where the freshmen were, and I was a soph, it was just my luck that the classroom I was waiting outside of was occupied by my ninth grade algebra teacher who was, in three words, Mrs. Dodds #2, and had to go up another floor. Thus, that is how I was late for homeroom.

My homeroom teacher is Mr. Connor. He teaches geometry.

"Mr. Jackson," I wonder how all teachers know my name. Oh gods, I forgot, I became notoriously famous for my entrance here at freshmen orientation. "A tad late, aren't you?"

"I'm sorry sir, I got lost."

"Lost? I thought that was for the freshmen. Perhaps you actually belong in the lower grade?"

I fumed.

"Sit down. You're late. Please do not assume that since Mr. Blofis is your stepfather, you may roam the school like you own it."

Great. Now everyone knows.

"Today, we're on a special bell schedule; you will be attending all of your classes. I will pass out your schedule, Metro cards, and forms to you now. Then proceed to your first period class. If you need a schedule change, contact your guidance counselor."

"Hey, Arman," I muttered. "Do you think he's PMSing or something?"

"The juniors told me he's actually a pretty cool teacher. Maybe he just hates you."

Big surprise.

Mr. Connor dropped my stuff on the floor. I think he heard. Whoopsie-daisies.

The fact that having lockers is a prerequisite to high school is a MYTH. Most NYC public high schools don't even have lockers since a) they can't afford it or b) there are too many students in said school.

Luckily, Goode is not one of those high schools. On the other hand, Goode has a top/bottom locker system. You're not even allowed to visit your locker unless it's before class, during lunch, or after class. Still, we have lockers.

The freshmen have their lockers on the sixth floor because they suck, and we sophomores have ours on the fifth. Now, last year, I didn't even use my locker once. I opened it once, closed it once, and that pretty much sums up my relationship with my locker. So if whatever unlucky freshman got my locker finds cockroachs living in there, I would not be surprised. Besides, I had gym last period, and I was not going to walk fifty-something flights of stairs everyday afterschool just to pick up some stuff.

I don't plan to use my locker this year either. I didn't get into the habit last year, why bother now? It's only one floor down from the uppermost level.

When I saw my schedule, I was pretty surprised. First of all, I had French 1, and it was Honors. My entire French vocabulary consists of two words: la rentrée, and French for fuck you. Oh, and ciao, but I think that's Italian for good bye. Besides, I took Spanish last year. I didn't necessarily pass. If English is hard enough for me to read, let's not get on the topic of Spanish. And Honors French? How does that even make sense? I've never even taken French before.

One of Goode's graduation requirements is to take two years of ancient languages: Classical Latin or Ancient Greek. Since I wanted to expand my knowledge, I desired Latin, nope. I requested Greek since I'm lazy. I got Latin.

Tenth graders get to choose one elective. I picked Science Research and AP Environmental Science as my preferences. Like the rest of my completely screwed-up schedule, I got Pre-AP Music Theory which is just a fancy name for LEARN HOW TO PLAY THE KEYBOARD FOR IDIOTS. As mentioned before, I'm not gonna discuss how I suck at reading music.

I really need to speak to my guidance counselor, but she pretty much hates me, rather like everyone else on the staff with the exception of Paul.

Worst of all, I had P.E. first period. With the freshmen.

Can my life get any worse?

Oh, yes, said god. Shut up, Zeus. That was a rheoretical question.

Gym at Goode is taken seriously. To rephrase, they do not hire art teachers to "watch" you guys walk around and gossip. I don't know what other people do, but here we actually do have gym class.

My gym teacher is Mr. Sharkey, by far the worst P.E. teacher at Goode. He makes gym hell-err, Hades. Now, in Manhattan, home to the biggest businesses, you're not going to find an outdoor track which takes up space for an office building. However, we do have Central Park.

Guess what he makes you do.

Yup. You run.

Now, in September, it's not that cold in the morning, but in October, when stupid Demeter decides to throw a fit because my dear uncle decided to kidnap his niece (does that even make sense?), things get cold really fast. In other words, we run two miles in our geeky gym uniform, shorts and a T-shirt, in the park, since it's within walking distance. Oh yeah, you start out slow, running a mile, but the learning objectives accelerate, and by December, you're expected to run four.

Excuse me, sir, but Goode is a high school, not military boot camp. That's Camp Half-Blood's job.

So explain to me why, on the first day of sophomore year, at eight twenty in the morning, we're running around this track-looking thing in Central Park.

All of my other classes were decent. Paul only teaches freshmen and junior English, so I don't have him. In sophomore English, we read Shakespeare who as far as I know, was some old dude from England who wrote poems and Romeo and Juliet.

Geometry is just shapes, and I don't have Mr. Connor, so I should be fine.

AP World History- yes, AP. There's no U.S. History or Global Studies here; every student has to take AP World. Well, everything I learned last year went through one ear, and out the other, so that should be a bit difficult.

French, now that'll be hard. First of all, my French teacher is Spanish, if that makes any sense at all. She teaches French in Spanch (Spanish + French) so you don't need to be Rachel to know how well I'll do in this class.

Ugh, chemistry, my worst nightmare.

Now it's lunch, yippeee. We have three different lunch periods: 5, 6, and 7. I got period 6 for lunch, the time where people socialize. I tried to find my friends from last year and not look like a complete loser. Nope. It appears that they have lunch later.

The many cliques at Goode are (often) racially, socially, and grade-ly divided. The popular sophomores hang out together, and the lesser-known nerds occupy one lunch table, you get the idea. We do have a social ladder at Goode, I'm not exactly the school pariah, but nor am I one of those people that everyone knows. Well, last year, the most of everyone in my grade knew me as that kid who sexually harassed the psycho cheerleader who in response blew up that band room.

"Perce! Get your butt over here!"

I turned around and saw Winnie waving me over. I meant Winston; Winnie's just my pet name for him. Deciding I had enough of roaming the cafeteria, I strolled over to his table, where I recognized a couple of the people seated at his table.

Winston Chen is the epitome of a popular guy. Last year, he was on the varsity basketball and swim team. He wasn't the best, he was only a freshman, but I think he scored the final winning goal in the borough finals against our biggest rival which ultimately decided our win. He became pretty famous after that, and had tons of girls chasing after him. On the other hand, he's also pretty smart, so you can call him a cool nerd.

He's also in my chemistry class.

The rest of his little group stared at me as if I just popped up out of a UFO and sported the exact same characteristics as your average space alien: green antennae, three eyes, purple skin...

"I know you," a guy in a green polo said awkwardly. "You sit behind me in Geometry. You're, uhh."

"Percy."

"Like the train from Thomas the Tank Engine?"

"I think so?" I do not think I would like to be remembered as a train.

"Aren't you also that kid who blew up a music room or something last year?"

"That was an accident."

While Goode has an extremely small school population of only 150 in the sophomore class, that does not mean everyone knows each other's names. We tend to only remember a few people.

"Um, what was your name again?"

"Oh, I'm Jeffrey."

"Like Jeffrey Lin?"

"Jeffrey Lin? Oh, you mean that New York Knicks basketball guy. That's Jeremy Lin, stupid. Besides, do I look Chinese to you?" He had brown eyes, and that was where the similarities ended. He probably had Nigeria blood or something.

And thus ensues the inception of our beautiful friendship.

Winston's little group is probably the most diverse party of people you'll see here at Goode. There are two other individuals you should know about: Winston's girlfriend, a really shy girl whose name is Nethya, like the Egyptian queen/princess/royalty figure whatsoever, and her best friend, a funny half-Filipino, half-white girl by the name of Sacagawea. At least, that's what it sounded like to me, so she gave herself the moniker, Sam.

I took one peek at Winston's lunch tray and decided not to spend $1.50 for some crappy piece of food. Sam and I walked over to the vending machines to buy a snack which was worth way more my money.

"Look at this amazing array of snacks," she said sarcastically. "They even have Pop chips, which are practically three-fourths filled with air."

"Um, I think I'll just get a granola bar."

The vending machine ate my dollar, and I watched as it go three centimeters from falling over the cliff. What a waste.

"Ugh! Stupid-" I kicked it, "Vending-" kicked it again, "Machine!"

"Can you hurry up?" Some impatient junior asked. "I need my food."

I gripped the sides, and gave it my best shake, recalling when Annabeth played that "Open the refrigerator!" "Do you want a milk shake or a fruit punch?" joke on me. Two Nature Valley Honey&Oats things landed in the hollow bucket.

"Awesome." I offered Sam one.

"Pshhh, they probably gave you two since no one actually buys granola bars, and they just wanna get rid of it." She accepted anyway.

It was as hard as rock.

"Ow! My poor teeth!" I complained. Plus, does it even make sense to refrigerate granola bars? Who even does that?

"It's your money, so haha." She laughed in my face.

We returned to the lunch table.

"Why did you guys get granola bars?" Jeffrey grouched. "You know, you're welcome to go to the vending machine in the teachers' lounge where there're way better snacks, like Doritos for example?"

"Oh, Jeff," I said, avoiding his question, completely changing topics. "Are you on the swim team?"

"He can't swim," Winston butted in.

"You can't swim?" Sam repeated, disbelieving. "Oh my gosh, you SUCK! I mean, even Nethya can do the doggy paddle."

"For ten seconds," Nethya finished.

"So, Percy," and all heads turned towards me, "do you plan on joining the team this year?"

"I wish," I muttered. Last year, my grades were too low, so I couldn't join any enrichment activities, like clubs or teams. I have hope though since Annabeth's my girlfriend now. "When are the tryouts?"

"Actually, they were over the summer-" my jaw dropped. I had packed all of my swimming essentials in a drawstring bag yesterday- "but you can swim for the coach today."

"Why?" Sam smirked. "You think you're good?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess-" Winston cut in. "Are you kidding? Yeah, he's good, he's faster than me even. I'm surprised he didn't even try to join last year."

"My mom actually wanted me to focus on my grades..." I made up an excuse. I was a bit ashamed to reveal the truth.

"Eh-hem." The loudspeaker blasted. "May I have your attention please?" No one listened. "I SAID, MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE?"

"No," the girl sitting across from me, aka Sam, whispered. I snickered.

"The lunch period is almost over, please make sure to clean up after yourselves, do not wait until the last minute to do so." Procrastination, a rule all high schoolers followed. "I repeat, if you are finished with your lunch, throw away your garbage. Thank you."

"What class do you guys have next?" Nethya asked.

"I have Music," I answered.

Sam perked up. "Pre-AP Music Theory?"

"Yeah, that."

"Same," she sighed.

"I have Trigonometry; the two lovebirds have English." Jeff informed us.

I heard music coming from the loudspeakers, and I walked with Sam to the music room.

Ms. Berger divided the class into two groups: the amateurs and the intermediate/advanced pianists. To no one's surprise, I was in the beginners' group. On the contrary, Sam was like Mozart reencarnated. Or maybe Beethoven.

"I'm serious, what was your name again?" "I prefer to be called Sam." "You belong in the AP Music Theory class, not here."

"That's quite all right."

At last, the teacher released Sam, and she sat down on the seat consecutive to mine, stretching her legs, looking exasperated. "Finally."

"You belong in the AP Music Theory class," I mimed in a high voice similar to Ms. Berger's.

She glared at me. "If you don't shut up, I'll lock you in my dungeon and make you sing soprano with that unmanly voice of yours."

I shut up.

The bell rang... I forgot to explain. Apparently, at Goode, classical music engages students in a learning mood, and thus, they play ancient stuff in replacement of a blaring bell. It's nice, but I swear, last year, they played some piece from Titanic, Mario, and Pink Panther, and I highly doubt that's from the classical period.

I waved to Sam, and we separated. She went to her locker, and I was thirsty to swim. Since Goode was too poor to build a swimming pool, Winston and I, along with some other freshmen hopefuls hitched a ride in his mom's car.

Winston's mother, has a very colorful language that could rival her son's. I don't know if this is a habit of all drivers, but their nasty side tends to be revealed when traffic and uncooperative drivers are involved. That includes my mother. They tend to yell at the car in front of them, failing to notice that said car's driver probably can't even hear them curse and yell profanities at him/her.

I sighed when the thirtieth "asshole" was voiced out loud.

She beeped.

He/She stuck out the middle finger in clear view.

Oooo.

This oh-hey-let's-piss-off-the-other drivers-by-honking-the-damned-horn method must work pretty well, since we arrived at the pool ten minutes early.

"Welcome back, Winston," the coach said, slapping my friend on the back, "and who do we have here? Freshmen?" He scanned our faces (and bodies?) in a way that almost made me feel scandalized, like we were being tested based on our body shape.

"This one," he pointed at me, "looks like a diver."

I hope he wasn't already setting expectations. I always fail to meet expectations. The freshies just looked plain scared.

When everyone arrived, he lectured all of us about Stuyvesant, our biggest rival in sports, and how thrilled he was about the team winning borough last year. Then he sent us all to go change.

I finished swapping my shorts for waterproof ones, when Winston stopped me. "Nuh-uh. That won't do. You're supposed to wear a Speedo."

"A Speedo?" I repeated.

"Yeah, like that," he answered, pointing at some really buff guy in shorts short enough to pose as underwear. "It's better designed for speed swimming. Board shorts which are what you're wearing increase drag and slow you down. It's your first time, so I think the coach will let you off."

I was not interested in broadcasting my entire legs for everyone to see.

"Newbies on this lane of the pool. I want to see what you can do." The coach called us over. I was the only non-freshman. Fantastic. "Who wants to go first?"

All the ninth graders turned towards me.

I got in the pool.

Disgusting. Poseidon would have a fit, if he didn't already know, if he knew how we were contaminating his water. It was chlorinated and smelled like the bathroom after my mom's weekly clean up. Still, it was better than no water, and I felt energized immediately. "What do you want me to do?"

"Do whatever you feel comfortable doing."

I decided to go with the classic freestyle, I didn't want to accidentially expose my son-of-Poseidon advantage just yet, and out of the corner of my eye, I watched his assistant, a familiar-looking senior, have a quick conversation with the guy and jot down something on the clipboard.

When I lifted myself out of the pool, the senior gave me a look. "Perseus Jackson, was it?"

"Percy," I corrected automatically.

"Can you do anything else?"

There was something exhilarating about the butterfly that I loved. Oh come on, you gotta know what that looks like. Michael Phelps was the best at it. I was in no mood for breaststroke (slow as f***), nor did I feel like backstroking.

After that run over the pool, the coach gave me the quick evaluation. "Have you ever been on a swim team, club?"

"No?"

"Where did you take swimming lessons?"

"Er," I made up a quick lie, "my dad taught me."

"Because you're good. Very good. We're keeping you, son. Are you a freshman?"

"No, a sophomore."

"Why didn't you audition last year? We needed your talent."

"Um-"

"Get in the lane with your friend. Ask them for instructions. Congrats. You made the team. Now, who's next?"

I slipped into the pool, and Winston grinned. "I knew you would make it. I saw you, you were a natural."

I felt slightly guilty since that was mostly due in part of my heritage. "What do we do now?"

I arrived at home with my hair wet and smelling strongly like chlorine. I like being on the team; it seemed like a huge family. The other guys welcomed me as if I were their brother although the other upperclassmen seemed slightly arrogant, and kind of ignored me. Since I was too lazy to fetch out my keys, I rang the doorbell, and the door was opened by my girlfriend.

"Annabeth." I said, surprised. "What are you doing here?" I hugged her tightly.

She pushed me away. "We're cooking! And ew, you stink of chlorine." She laughed, taking my stuff. "Go take a shower, I'll go stick your clothes in the washing machine."

I stepped into the bathroom, stripped down, and jumped in the bathtub, taking a quick shower. Then I realized too late that my pajamas were in my bedroom, and there was no way I was going to walk across the apartment with two ladies in the house. Poking my head through the door, I called for her assistance. "Can you get my clothes? It's on the floor."

A gray T-shirt and blue boxers was thrown in my face. "Thanks."

I quickly threw on my clothes and heard the washer being turned on. "Hey, where's Mom?" I asked, furiously drying my hair with a towel as I walked into the kitchen.

"She's doing the laundry. There was no way I was going to touch your smelly shorts."

"What're you guys cooking?" I asked, trying to peek over Annabeth's shoulder to see what's in the pan.

She shielded the food, waving a hand in front of my face. "Go do your homework or something."

"I don't have homework," I replied, dodging her attempts to cover my eyes. I was, after all, maybe two or three inches taller than her which was enough for me. "I just have a bunch of forms to fill out and contracts to sign."

"What contracts?"

"Stuff like, 'I agree to the terms of your grading policies'. Oh, and some questionaires. It'll take me no more than five minutes."

"Five minutes, good. Now go away." She shoved me in the direction of my bedroom.

"HEY." I protested. "It's my house."

"Actually," my mom butted in, "the place is under my name. Go fill out those forms, Percy. The only thing I'm doing is signing those forms."

The number one rule to survival is you listen to girls. Because angry girls are very scary. So like an obedient puppy, I headed off to my room to sign my name on the endless pile of papers in my folder.

...

I am sick of signing my name. I can't even write legible script for life. If my print is atrocious enough, I don't see why I can't sign my name that way. Who even bothers to read the entire nonsense anyway?

And the questionaires. Let's not get started on those.

What is your name? Oh, please do not tell me that you did not see the "Name_" on top. How many people are in your family? Do you have any siblings? How old are they? For your information, the Greek pantheon means I have thousands of family members, most of who I have never met, and will never meet, in my life. I don't even wanna talk about how many half-siblings I have. Oh, you meant immediate family. My bad. How do you get to school? By bus? Car? Subway? Stalker. What methods do you learn best as a student? Shut up. These questions are really getting on my nerves.

I heard keys go through the door, and I knew Paul was home. "Hey, Annabeth. What's cooking?"

Whispers and laughter. My own girlfriend won't even tell me what's for dinner.

"Percy, come on. It's time to eat."

I grumpily got out of my spinny desk chair and closed the door to my bedroom. Everyone was already seated at the table.

And Nico popped out of nowhere. "'Sup Perce. How's school?"

"Whoa. Who said you're allowed into my house?!"

"This is an apartment. I live here. Didn't you know that I camp out on your couch sometimes?" He took out a large paper bag with KFC imprinted on the front. "Who wants chicken?" he sang. "It's even a healthy alternative. It's Kentucky Grilled Chicken."

I groaned.

"What a coincidence! Today, we have chicken as well."

I should have known. My nose is equal to that of a wolf's.

"Oh, danggit." Annabeth glanced at the clock. "My curfew's at 9. I need to get going."

"Will I see you tomorrow?" I asked hopefully.

"Tomorrow's Friday, so yes."

"Let's go school supply shopping on Saturday," I suggested.

"It's a date. Bye!" She kissed me on the cheek, in a way that was almost chaste.

Because I have enraging hormones, I curled my arm around her waist and gave her a real kiss on the lips. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Nico sighed from behind me. "Please keep the PDA under PG-13."

I closed the door. "Shut up, Nico. Besides, it's almost nine. Isn't it time for wittle Nico to go to bed?"

He punched me. "Ow, that hurt so much," I teased mockingly.

"Sorry, it's a natural instinct."

"PERCY. YOUR CLOTHES ARE DRY-"

And this concludes the end of the first day of school, which honestly, wasn't that- actually, it sucked real bad.

omgomgomg, I LOVE YOU HURRICANE SANDY. Sorry if this offends any victims, I hope you're still alive and your house is okay.

Anyway, the mayor called off school for whole entire week. It was basically another break/mini-vacation for all of us. And plus since it was a surprise, the teachers couldn't assign us any homework :DDD

Well, I live in NYC., so my info. should be pretty accurate. Yes, Percy's hometown. Isn't that awesome? I dare you to guess which public high school I go to. P.S. there are hundreds to guess from. Since I'm a nerd, don't expect quick updates.

In my opinion, this is a bit OOC, since I don't think Percy would sound that sarcastic/pessimistic/complain that mucho, but please tolerate it. It's how I talk and think.

Oh, and I'm trying to be realistic as much as possible. In other words, Annabeth will not be attending Goode, sorry if that disappoints you. I promise there WILL be Percabeth and some...interactions with Percy's classmates outside school.

Review? ^-^